


Monster in Man's Skin

by stympahalides



Series: Roll the Bones [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Curses, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, dubcon and torture don't involve jaskier or geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:54:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29068374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stympahalides/pseuds/stympahalides
Summary: A retelling of "A Grain of Truth" by Andrzej Sapkowski.Jaskier wonders off into the woods and is captured by a cursed creature named Nivellen.
Series: Roll the Bones [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978561
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Monster in Man's Skin

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story that was replaced as chapter 28 of Reaching Back by "Birthday," so it's not technically the second part. It is a retelling of A Grain of Truth. I have changed it in some ways and kept very close to the original story in others. Honestly, if you’ve read The Last Wish, this might be boring for you.   
> Also, I changed Nivellen’s backstory just a little bit.   
> Please do heed the tags on this one! Things are mentioned without detail, but I caution you all the same.

The day goes downhill so quickly Jaskier barely has time to catch his breath and realize it’s happening.

They’re traveling down a hardpacked road, Jaskier trailing behind Roach and Geralt, passing the time by strumming his lute and singing softly, pretending not to notice how Geralt taps his fingers on the reins, echoing Jaskier’s rhythm, likely unconsciously. Heading east, making their way to the small town indicated on the notice they found a day or so back, preparing to go after what was described as a _wandering corpse of a recently-passed girl who’d lost herself in the wood and only just found her way back to haunt the farmers’ lands_. Geralt says wraith, which is a pretty word for such a horrible thing.

Geralt abruptly pulls to a halt and sniffs the air, glancing into the trees and hoisting himself off of Roach, silencing Jaskier with a gesture.

“Stay,” he says, voice clipped, before wandering into the trees. Jaskier feels a swell of fear in his chest, finely underlined by frustration, thinking about how much he hates it when the witcher wanders off and won’t tell him what’s going on.

As they wait, Roach anxiously yanks on her reins, velvet lips pulling away from her teeth and eyes rolling wide, easily dragging Jaskier a few paces down the road. He whispers and clicks his tongue, makes the silly pbbbt noise Geralt does to mimic her, tries to soothe with light touches, but Roach doesn’t mind him, and continues to strain against his dug-in heels. She pulls him in the direction opposite from where Geralt went.

Whatever Geralt scented in the trees must be really fucking bad if she’s trying to bolt.

She eventually jerks the reins hard enough to send a wrenching pain down Jaskier’s arm. He instinctively releases her with a gasp and she takes off running. Jaskier tries to follow her, cursing as he runs through the trees away from Geralt, looking out for whatever has them so bothered.

He stumbles to a stop and listens hard, working to separate the rustle as the wind cards its way through high branches from the heavy rhythm of a horse’s trot. Nothing, not even a whicker. Jaskier licks his lips meditatively, forcing himself away from imagining Geralt’s anger when he finds out Jaskier lost Roach, though Geralt will probably be able to sniff her out easily enough. Seeing no more dignified method, Jaskier starts more slowly through the brush, whistling and trilling and clicking his tongue to call Roach, his stomach churning all the while.

Then, a rumble. Deep and long, stretching and prickling along Jaskier’s spine. If not for the bright sun above, he would worry about poor weather, but as the sound ripples around him, popping anxiously in his ears, Jaskier realizes that the noise is the cavernous, drawn-out growl of a large beast.

Jaskier’s shoulders straighten as if pulled by a string, and he whips around in time to see a giant, hairy mass rise to its hindlegs. The creature is tall and thick like a bear, covered in brown hair that shortens around its muzzle. Where Jaskier would expect the face of a bear, he is met instead with a boar-like snout and long, pointed ears that droop with weight. It doesn’t have claws, but startlingly human fingers with dark padding and sharp nails darting from the end of each one. Perhaps strangest of all, the creature’s midsection and shoulders are covered by a somewhat out of fashion and scuffed jerkin.

Its mouth peels open to reveal spiked teeth, and the growl opens up and twists into a roar. Jaskier responds with a strangled noise, stumbling away, pushing his hands out in supplication as he goes. The beast follows, taking a step forward for each Jaskier takes back, dark eyes laying steadily to meet the bard’s. Stomach twisting with the futility of it, Jaskier opens his mouth to call out for Geralt when his foot catches on a loose root. He falls back hard, sliding and tumbling down a slope until his head slams into a tree trunk and his vision blurs and spins before finally going dark.

~*~

When he opens his eyes again, he is on a stone floor in what appears to be a slightly rundown but clean manor. Jaskier groans, his wrist swollen and purple and his head thumping painfully. When he brings his hand to his face, he feels crusted and flakey blood dried under his nose.

“Are you awake?” asks a voice from the shadows, and the suddenness of it makes him jump.

He looks up but can’t see anyone. Heart rattling, Jaskier hurries to his feet and backs himself up until his shoulders hit a wall, then bats his arms around blindly, curling his fingers into claws in hopes that they’ll catch on flesh and cut.

Nothing approaches him. Nothing so much as moves, as far as he can tell. After a moment he stops swinging around and settles, arms still defensively aloft, giving his eyes time to adjust. In the dark he feels vulnerable, nerves bubbling sickly in his gut and heat spreading up his neck, breath rushing through his teeth. 

Once he can see, his flickering eyes catch something at the far wall, lurking in the open doorway and almost casually slouching forward to look back at him. Jaskier blinks. Drops his jaw. Manipulates the tears from his eyes.

Realizing it’s been noticed, the creature emerges from the dark, still walking on its hindlegs and crossing its arms over its chest, face twisted into an impatient grimace that nearly sends Jaskier spinning again.

With an angry trill, he asks, “Where is my lute!” which _maybe_ exposes his skewed priorities but that lute is very important to him, thank you.

The creature says, “It is still in the forest, I imagine.”

Jaskier groans, hopes that his lute is unharmed, that Geralt finds it and tucks it away safely. The creature comes closer with another growl, this one much more minute than what he’d been producing in the forest. Jaskier doesn’t have anywhere to go, has no way to defend himself, so he just takes a deep breath and waits, takes in the creature’s teeth and imagines them clamping down on him.

Instead, the creature snorts disgustedly and says, “You might as well join me for dinner,” which makes absolutely no sense, so Jaskier just nods. Sure, why not?

He follows the creature into a dining area where they sit on opposite ends of the table. Old mahogany, its legs carved into ornate shapes Jaskier can feel but not see nor identify in the dark. Maybe a goat head, maybe fruit, or blooming flowers. The creature waits until Jaskier is seated and drawn close to the table, then waves a hand theatrically over the tablecloth, lips tilting into what might be a smirk, and then completes the motion by snapping his padded palm down beside his plate. Food appears, bountiful and warm and delicious, which Jaskier thinks would be a pretty swell trick if Geralt could learn it.

When he asks about it, though, the creature just waves him off and says it comes with the property, which Jaskier only realizes later actually means the land, the building. Not just as a facet of being a bear-boar-man.

The creature scarfs the food noisily, while Jaskier can bring himself to do little more than pick at his plate, still woozy from his collision and wary about this encounter.

The plate clatters as the final bites are plucked away, and there’s a smack of the creature licking its fingers clean. Then it leans forward, fingers twining together so its muzzle can slot forward and rest upon them. It studies Jaskier intently, eyes narrow.

Then it speaks, each word landing slow and deliberate. “You must be very curious about me.”

Jaskier pushes his nearly untouched plate aside. If he was a wise man, he’d wave a hand and say that he just wants to go home, to reunite with his traveling companion and find a healer for the bump on his head. But Jaskier has always been weak to his curiosity, so he answers, “I am.”

Something unidentifiable in the unique features flickers across the creature’s face, then is gone, tucked neatly out of sight. “My name is Nivellen, though people in nearby towns might call me Fanger.” He clicks his teeth as if Jaskier might need to be reminded of their gleaming sharpness.

Jaskier purses his lips. “I’m Jaskier. A simple bard. I’ve been on the wrong side of a few unflattering monikers myself. Most of them earned.”

Nivellen twists a fork around, studying the prongs, and says, “I saw that you were travelling with a witcher. I want you both off my property as soon as possible.” 

Jaskier arches a brow. “If you want us off your property so bad, you probably shouldn’t have grabbed me, since the witcher will more than likely come to get me.”

“I could easily kill you right now and throw your body out as a warning to him.” Nivellen growls again, and Jaskier takes a moment to wonder how he wound up here. Surely the gods aren’t punishing him because he tried to retrieve Roach.

Jaskier takes a sip of wine and pretends to not be scared, says, “Well, that would be an even shittier idea, seeing as right now Geralt won’t kill you unless you prove to be mindless and unreasonable. Displaying me as a warning sign might persuade him that’s the truth, or that you’re too dangerous to be left alone. Up to you, but I seriously doubt you’d be any match for Geralt.”

Nivellen snorts, shakes his head. “I’m not mindless. Only half of my nature is beastly and I can prove it.” Jaskier starts to say that the best proof is an act of kindness, but Nivellen gestures to the dark wall over Jaskier’s shoulder and continues, “Now, look at the portrait behind you.”

Jaskier has to stand and get closer to see it. There are three paintings, and Nivellen directs him to the one furthest to the right. The frame is curtained with cobwebs, and Jaskier has to carefully blow away a layer of dust before he can actually see the work. The boy in the painting is round-faced and freckled, topped with honeycomb blond hair and a feathered cap. His expression is dull in the way portrait subjects often are, though his eyes are puffy and slightly frenetic, as if concerned about the state of the room before him.

Jaskier inhales slowly. “Who is this?” he asks, not turning back to face Nivellen. 

Nivellen chuckles, low and dangerous. “Can’t you tell? The eyes, the poise?” His chair scrapes back and Jaskier hears him turn, his fur brushing along the wood, so he can better watch. Claws tap impatiently, beating out a fast pattern.

Jaskier clears his throat and turns his back to the painting. “Well,” he draws, tangling his hands together and locking eyes with the beast before him, a warning tingle sounding between his shoulder blades. “If you’re about to say that it’s you, my interest is definitely piqued.”

He grunts. “You’ve guessed correctly. That boy is me, or was me, more aptly. I’ve grown considerably since then.” Nivellen gestures for Jaskier to return to his seat across from him, and Jaskier does so, moving slowly now as if concerned that one foul move will send Nivellen barreling over the table, or Jaskier might catch the condition if he steps on the wrong tile.

“Is it a curse?” he hazards.

Nivellen’s muzzle shifts, his long mouth twisting into an ugly grin. “Yes. Eat, and I’ll tell you my story.”

Jaskier hooks his fingers around the stem of his goblet and takes a careful sip. Nivellen nods approvingly then drops his eyes to the meal before him. They fog with memory, no longer focused on their meal, or the bard at the table.

“So long ago, now. It’s almost difficult to remember what life used to be like. Pale skin, barely any whiskers on my chin. All those nerves and doubts jangling around my head. I was only a boy when it happened. Easy to sway. To manipulate. My opinions half-formed and largely reliant on the approval of my peers.” He shudders, the motion so big it must be for show.

Nivellen goes silent, one of his claws idly tracing the rim of his goblet. When it draws out for too long, Jaskier takes another gulp of his drink and says, “Dangerous time in anyone’s life.”

Prompted back from his thoughts, Nivellen continues, “Yes, yes. Dangerous. I had recently lost my father and inherited the life he had built around us.” He shakes his head. “I worshipped that man. Was lost without him. Though, I might have fared better if he’d taught me how to run the family business. Hindsight.”

Jaskier nods. “What was the business?”

“Business might not be the most accurate label. He led a group of highwaymen, as his father before him. That’s how he died, of course. Just like that, I was the leader of a band of cutthroats who were older than me and much more experienced. I was soft, and they took advantage of my naivete. _This is how your father did it, Niv, this is how we’ve always done it_. I took their word for it. Didn’t know any better and was just happy to feel accepted in the group.” He looks at Jaskier morosely. “The power might have also gotten to my head, a bit. Commanding a group of people, always having the final word. Or the illusion of the final word.” 

He takes a hasty sip of wine, swiping a quick paw over his lips to swipe away the excess. Jaskier watches his pink tongue dart out and catches a glimpse of a threatening canine.

“So?” Jaskier asks, dragged on by itchy curiosity.

“So, I led by following, and my methods brought us to a temple in Gelibol. I didn’t know at the time, I’m not even sure if it would have made a difference to me by then, but it was a temple of Coram Agh Tera.” He searches Jaskier’s face for recognition, finds none. “Dreadful, cruel people. A religion that revolves around bloody sacrifices. Fond of their curses, apparently.”

Jaskier hums. He’s never heard of this particular group, but it’s not hard to follow the scene Nivellen is setting, accurate or not.

Nivellen’s shoulders heave in a great sigh, and he rests his chin in his mitts. “We…well, I was goaded into doing some very indecent things. Very indecent.”

Jaskier swallows. “What did you do?” he asks, a leaden feeling pooling through his chest. Dread. Nivellen shifts around in his chair, folding in on himself as if to secure a protective barrier over his vulnerabilities.

“I…we…” Nivellen pauses to cough into his shoulder, collecting his thoughts. “Temples have gold. Not always much, but something. It was a modest place, but I was assured that donations and…and sacred objects and ornaments could be found. But when we went in there was very little reward. A few orens, fancy candlestick holders. And a single priestess.”

Disgust rises in Jaskier’s throat and he presses back in his chair, pulling his hands from the table. Nivellen follows his retreat with dull eyes, then shakes his head.

“It’s not what you think,” he assures, but Jaskier doesn’t relax. “My men insisted that she was holding back on us, that there had to be something hidden in the temple. We just had to get her to tell us. I had no idea how to get her to talk, but they said…what my father would do, what any man worth my position would do, was to make her.” 

Jaskier blows air between his teeth. “Fuck,” he groans, rising again from his seat and backing up until the frame of the painting presses into his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Nivellen repeats, digging into his forearm with his own claws hard enough to leave marks. Then he snaps his eyes up, lips peeling back to expose his shining teeth. “I didn’t enjoy hurting her. It scared me. Sickened me. But I was only a boy. A child. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Not _torture_ ,” Jaskier snaps, then presses further into the wall, wishing he could sink into the cold stones and escape into the forest.

“I know!” Nivellen shrieks. His paws slam hard onto the table, sending a rattle through the dishes. A candle wobbles dangerously and he quickly snags a hand out to right it. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have done it! Alright? I know I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve learned my lesson!” He gestures to his furry body, then smears the foaming spit from his mouth.

“How did--” Jaskier jabs a thumb back at the painting, “—when did she curse you?”

Nivellen inhales slowly, holding the air in his inflated chest for a long moment before releasing it in a gust. His voice is heavy and dragging when he answers, “While I was…in the middle of it. She stopped crying and screaming and just turned her eyes on me. Cold eyes, like stones set in her skull.”

“Does it make you feel better to imagine she was a bad person?” Jaskier interrupts, the question sharp as a dagger on his tongue. 

Nivellen clenches his jaw and glares. “Sometimes, yes.” He shakes out his fur, tipping his chin so he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier. “Her eyes were absorbing; so dark and intent on me. For a moment I thought I was drowning in them, enveloped by some sort of a magic. I wasn’t entirely wrong. The priestess wasn’t killing me, but she spoke then, so softly so only I could hear. _Monster in man’s skin,_ she called me. She said more, something about true love and blood, but I couldn’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. The room seemed to shrink to a pinpoint, and I fell to the floor. When I opened my eyes, I was like this, but covered in blood, my men dead around me. Clawed apart.”

Jaskier closes his eyes. “She had a sense of humor.”

“I didn’t find it particularly funny,” Nivellen grumbles, shamefaced. “She was dead, too, though I don’t believe that was my work. Her throat was slashed. Perhaps she needed to offer her own blood for the magic to work, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.”

“Have you tried to break the curse?” Jaskier asks sometime later, once he has sat with the story long enough.

Nivellen jerks at the sound of his voice, as if snapping awake. He sits up and says, “I’m familiar enough with fairytales that I know the supposed value of true love’s kiss, and the priestess had said something along those lines. Probably got a kick out of the idea that I’d have to not only get someone to kiss me, but earn their love as well. I wallowed for several years thinking it hopeless. Anytime someone from the nearby villages stumbled upon me they ran in terror.”

“Then?” Jaskier asks. A small, reluctant smile tips up the corners of Nivellen’s mouth, apparently caught in a memory.

“Then a man ran into some trouble in the woods and came to my manor seeking help. He approached the door with his daughter. Primula, her name was. They blanched when they saw me. Tried to run. But I grabbed the father and Primula went stock still, unwilling to leave him. I made them a deal; a new wheel for their carriage and a sack of gold and jewels if the daughter stayed with me for a year.”

Jaskier balks. “And they agreed?”

“Of course. Primula came from a poor family. They would have sold her to a man eventually. This way they would at least get her back in a year.” He shrugs. “It was difficult to ease her mind, but we grew comfortable enough with each other. She was like a balm to my loneliness, and after hearing about my curse, minus a few details, she warmed to me as well. Friendship, then love.”

“She kissed you?” Jaskier asks, unable to keep himself from staring at Nivellen’s snout.

“She kissed me.”

“But it didn’t work?”

Nivellen shrugs. “Clearly not. She left after a year and not long after another family came hoping for a similar deal. On and on and on, and I’m still cursed.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and tilts his chin back so his face is turned towards the ceiling. “So, you think you’ll find true love and break your curse by taking advantage of desperate women who are forced to adapt to an awful situation after they’ve literally been sold?”

Nivellen sniffs at him and says, “The women live better lives with me anyway.” He shifts in his seat, eyes wandering to the far corners of the room. Jaskier fights the urge to follow his line of sight, the hairs rising along his arms. “I’ve started to realize that I don’t think I want to break the curse at all.” His tone is pinched and defensive. Jaskier can’t decide if he wants to sink through the floor or strangle Nivellen.

He rubs at his eyes. “Do you have one of these women living with you now?”

Nivellen studies him for a moment before answering. “I do, as a matter of fact. And while the curse might not see our love as true, I know it’s special. More genuine than anything you could ever understand, bard. It goes deep and far beyond the superficial delights most people enjoy because there’s nothing on the outside of me to appreciate other than what I can provide and who I am. My soul. My heart. It’s all she wants.” 

Nivellen’s eyes take on a dreamy quality, and his sharp nails clack together as he thinks, lips parting to expose jagged lines of teeth. Jaskier clears his throat. “That sounds…wonderful. Very nice, Nivellen. Can I ask her name?”

“Of course,” he says, slowly returning to the present. “Vereena. Lovely Vereena.”

Again, his eyes flitter away from Jaskier, dancing around the edges of the room, into the shadows where Jaskier, no matter how adjusted to the dark, cannot see. His stomach clenches, and he leans infinitesimally closer to Nivellen, folding his hands together. 

Jaskier asks, “Where _is_ Vereena?”

Nivellen blinks and drags his eyes back to Jaskier, the movement looking effortful. A slow slide over to meet Jaskier’s gaze. He stills his hands. “Out. She spends a lot of time in the forest.”

Jaskier rolls in his lips. “There was something lurking in the forest, which is why Geralt was wandering around in the first place. I thought it might have been you, but he was heading in the opposite direction. It might be a good idea for us to leave and find our respective companions.”

Nivellen looks at him sharply and immediately lurches to his feet, furry stomach nearly knocking the table over with his forceful movement. Without a word, he hurries around the table, abandoning Jaskier to make his own way through the dark. He trails down the hall, running his palms along the cold walls, listening hard and doing his best to trail after Nivellen’s clamber

Mercifully, Jaskier catches up in time to see a burst of light as the front door is thrown open, and he rushes out. The first time they traversed the manor grounds, Jaskier had been unconscious and presumably carried through on Nivellen’s back. Now, as he keeps pace with him, he takes a moment to study them. Little has been done for upkeep; the outer walls have crumbled and chipped, allowing climbing vines to twist around and seep through exposures, the only surviving plants seemingly overgrown grass and creeping weeds. What was once a flowerbed is now haunted by browned and stiff corpses, stems slouched down and buried in leaf mulch. Standing in the center of it all is a great fountain, basin empty of water, and a statue of a stone dolphin arcing out as if leaping from the sea. 

As they leave the manor behind, returning to the surrounding forest, Jaskier glances sideways at Nivellen, taking in his clenched jaw, and says, “Don’t be afraid. It’s almost certain that Geralt has taken care of whatever danger there was and is busy looking for me, perhaps with Vereena.”

Nivellen shakes his head. “I worry what the witcher will do if he finds her.”

Jaskier blanches, snagging a hand in the beast’s jerkin and yanking hard enough to strain the fabric. Nivellen glares at him, but goes silent once he sees Jaskier’s expression. Jaskier gives the jerkin a hard shake and snaps, “ _Are you suggesting—_ ”

Nivellen waves him off before he can finish. “Vereena isn’t quite as normal as I might have suggested.” He goes quiet for a few moments, then seems to catch the look Jaskier is shooting him. “I believe she is a rusalka.”

Jaskier considers this, his brain feeling jumbled from the many ups and downs of what had started off as a regular, boring day. He collects himself and assures, “As long as she is peaceful, she shouldn’t be in any danger. Geralt is good. He doesn’t hurt anyone or anything needlessly.” 

It’s definitely odd traveling with what could be best described as a bear-man but Jaskier isn’t a stranger to odd travel companions, though they’re usually just Geralt, who isn’t all that weird outside his profession and a few mutant-related quirks, or someone who is physically normal but suffers from a poor personality. Nivellen sits somewhere to the right of this spectrum.

They wander, Nivellen listening carefully as they search. Jaskier warns him that Geralt might come at them rather quickly and quietly and that the best thing for him to do would be to act as not-beastly as he can manage so Jaskier can explain.

Hoping to distract him from his nerves, Jaskier takes a slow breath and changes the topic. “What you said earlier about non-superficial love sounds like it would make a wonderful ballad.” 

Nivellen, unfocused, says, “It might not make such a pretty ballad after all. Might wind up being something more of a warning about curses and behaving like a beast, not heeding warnings or taking the lessons that are given to you.”

Jaskier frowns. “I’d leave out the less savory parts. Replace you with someone else entirely. Someone more sympathetic.”

Nivellen reluctantly turns his attention back to Jaskier, studying him for a moment before looking away again. His voice is hushed, low and gruff so that Jaskier has to strain to hear. “I’ve been having horrible nightmares. Or, I hope they’re nightmares.”

“About what?” Jaskier asks, his own voice barely above a whisper.

“I run through the forest- tear through it, more aptly- causing all sorts of grief. I worry…I’m afraid they mean I’m losing more of myself. The human part.” He again tilts his head to look at Jaskier, his brown eyes twisted with cold anguish that sits heavily in Jaskier’s stomach. “What if I become a monster? A real monster?”

Jaskier shakes his head, says, “Have you actually left your room? Has your personality changed at all since the nightmares started?”

“I can’t be sure, but no, I don’t think so.” He swallows roughly, then forces a smile. “I don’t wake up with dirt caked between my toes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jaskier pats his furry shoulder and says, “When love is true, and when it’s reciprocated so strongly…I think that’s very special, Nivellen. Something to hold on to. Don’t squander your chance of redemption and happiness on fear.”

Nivellen nods, then grabs Jaskier’s arm just a little too tight, sharp nails pinching the skin, speaking in a rush, “But if you or the witcher ever hear that I’ve lost himself completely, the witcher should return and do his job.” 

Jaskier blinks. He opens his mouth, not sure what is going to come out, how to answer such a request. Before he can navigate a response, however, a dark figure steps lithely from the trees, nearly sending Jaskier out of his boots with the suddenness of her movement as the woman peeks out.

“Vereena,” Nivellen breathes, reaching out a paw, and she does step closer, though her eyes are stuck on Jaskier.

Her skin is alabaster, standing out starkly under her dark hair. And her eyes are liquid black, so unnatural that Jaskier has to train himself not to avert his gaze or cringe away. She is very silent and moves oddly, as if the earth pulls her along and she is simply gliding gracefully upon it. Jaskier, who has seen a rusalka, immediately decides that she is not one.

He looks between the two creatures and says, “I’m glad you’ve found each other, so if Nivellen will just point me in the right direction, I’ll head back towards the road and start to track down Geralt.”

Vereena turns her head slightly towards Nivellen, who frowns and looks back at her like they’re talking. His expression falls and Jaskier takes an involuntary step back, his body urging him to run. She returns her attention to Jaskier and then inexplicably presents his lute. Her long fingers curve into hooks that she drags up and down the strings, strumming poorly, accompanied by a grating, tuneless noise of a language that tumbles from her, though her mouth doesn’t move.

Jaskier grinds his teeth and, feeling stupid, says, “Ah. Thank you for retrieving my lute,” and then holds his hand out expectantly.

A moment of perfect stillness. Vereena steps closer to Jaskier and stretches the lute out, then yanks it back before he can grab it. Lightning fast, her hand wraps around his wrist and she wrenches him in closer. He yelps and tries to scramble away, but she’s got her iron grip on his bad wrist and pained tears roll down his face as she tugs, wringing a wounded howl from between his teeth. 

Nivellen yells, “Vereena, stop!”

She shakes Jaskier pitilessly and he chokes back a scream, senses heat rising in his face and then, feeling like a caged animal, brings his hand up and digs into one of her eyes. She screams and Jaskier screams and Nivellen screams bloody murder and the noise is horrible and there’s a strength to it that hits Jaskier like a storm and sends him hurtling back into a tree.

Vereena drops his lute with an unceremonious thump and charges at Jaskier, lips parting around another shriek. He brings his arms up to guard himself, knowing that it will do no good. Her hands grab at him, wrangle his arms down and then she dives in as if for a kiss, her hot breath on his neck as he tries to wriggle away only to break off into a choked noise when her fingers dig into his throat right under the chin and hold him in place.

She pulls away just enough for him to see her sharp teeth, a pleased gleam in her eye. She dips in closer to him, then is yanked back. Nivellen screams, “Vereena, please! Please! Stop!”

He pulls her just enough that she can’t snap her teeth on Jaskier, who she’s dragging now like a ragdoll. Jaskier tries to kick her off but he’s part of a chain now. She releases his throat and jabs her sharp fingers just under his ribs, pressing up into his flesh. He lets out a scream full of pain and fear and then there’s a new force, one that bashes Vereena off of him and leaves Jaskier sprawled back in the grass, looking up at the sky and trying to figure out what’s happening.

Jaskier rolls to his side, angling his face to see the blur of motion before him. Geralt. _Geralt_. Geralt slowly pulling out his sword, glinting in the sun.

Remembering, stiltedly, that he’s supposed to defend them, that they’re in love and this is horrible but it’s a mistake, it really has to be a mistake, Jaskier shouts, “Wait, Geralt,” and waves his arm. Geralt seems to take in the confusion of the bear-man and the whatever-she-is scrambling in the grass, the bear-man crying and the woman seething while a very bruised Jaskier calls for him, and he turns to look at Jaskier, who quickly adds, “Don’t need to kill’em,” before the woman screams again, blowing Geralt and Jaskier back away from her and sending Nivellen rolling away too.

Jaskier’s ears ring and he feels like he’s been trampled, like his insides are porridge, and he rolls his head to the side and sees Geralt lying on his stomach, shoving his hands beneath himself to quickly push up, but for a split second those golden eyes are on Jaskier. Confusion melts away, leaving only a bright fury that twists down his body, leaving the witcher rigid and poised for battle.

Jaskier slumps back over the ground, cheek pressed to the cold dirt. Geralt regrips his sword and stomps toward Vereena and her lover, who is still yelling both at her and now at Geralt. The witcher brings a hand up, fingers folded into a Sign that sends Vereena to her knees.

And then she turns into a giant bat.

The forest rages with the fight; a mess of Signs and claws and flapping, leathery wings. Crying out, Nivellen crashes down, baring his teeth at his love, eyes circled in panic-white, rolling desperately as he swipes at her. Jaskier’s stomach sinks and he presses his eyes closed, listening to them grunt and tumble at each other.

Another scream. Jaskier feels his body drag along the ground, hears the snap of a form crashing into a tree. He opens his eyes in time to watch Geralt slip down, face warped with pain. He slams his fist down once, twice, then struggles back to his feet. Jaskier whines and tries to rise as well, but the strength is sapped from his arms and he can do little more than observe.

While Geralt is occupied, Vereena turns her attention to Nivellen, backing him harshly up against a tree and slashing him with her fangs, wings flaring and then wrapping around him in a gnarled embrace. He grabs at her, whispering, begging with his face pressed to her muzzle, claws knotting into her fur and holding her in place.

“Vereena.” His voice is weak, shattered but warm with love. “Vereena. Vereena.”

Geralt lifts his blade and slams it down, the point sliding through her chest and erupting out the other side. Blood splatters out, then pours, matting into Nivellen’s fur as he howls brokenly, pulling her closer to him and off the blade. Her body twitches, receding back into long legs and stark skin, dark hair tumbling down to mask both of their faces.

And then she’s dead, and Jaskier thinks he really is crying, watching the bear-man’s eyes clench with grief as his body morphs and shrinks down into a shivering mess of flushed pink flesh and graying hair.

Quite a bit crueler than true love’s kiss.

Geralt’s brow furrows but as Nivellen gathers his dead lover in his hands and wails, the witcher hurries over to where Jaskier is laying, dropping to kneel beside him.

“Jaskier, look at me,” he says, and then lifts Jaskier so he’s sitting up. He takes in his injuries while Jaskier keeps looking at Nivellen, at Vereena.

He blinks his focus back to Geralt and asks, “Did you find Roach?”

Geralt stares at him. “She found me. Can you stand?” Jaskier thinks that the alternative must be that Geralt will carry him and he’s sorely tempted but decides that now isn’t the time for that. He just nods and groans as Geralt brings him to his feet.

Geralt slowly guides them over to Nivellen, angling them so Jaskier is tucked behind him, almost out of sight. He glances between the stranger and Jaskier, then says, “Come with me. I can help you back to the nearest village.”

Nivellen groans and shakes his head, then slowly pulls himself to standing, leaving Vereena in a pile. He steps over her clumsily, reaching past Geralt to grab for Jaskier’s unharmed hand. Geralt nearly flinches away, his arm tightening on Jaskier’s waist, but Jaskier closes the distance, wrapping his hand around Nivellen’s newly-human fingers. Neither of them says anything for a while, the confusion and pain in Nivellen’s eyes nearly sending Jaskier into a wave of tears. Geralt’s jaw clenches.

Nivellen takes a deep breath and says, “That’s that, then.” He releases Jaskier, who lets his hand collapse back to his side, and turns on his heels to stumble back through the woods on uncertain legs, back in the direction of his manor. Jaskier imagines he’ll collect his lover in a shroud, find a proper place to bury her. Maybe he’s being too romantic.

Geralt looks tempted to follow but Jaskier leans heavily against him and says, “Let me grab my lute,” and they head in the opposite direction of Nivellen.

Eventually they reach Roach. She’s tied to a tree, the knot loose enough that she could work herself free if so inclined. Geralt sets Jaskier down and makes camp around him, wrapping him in a blanket that smells like horse and handing him a little potion that Jaskier swallows down with a grimace. He also uncorks the salves that Jaskier hates and rubs them into the ugly bruise on his wrist, inspecting it before deciding that it isn’t broken, and then giving the same attention to the lump at the back of Jaskier’s head. 

Geralt tells the story from his perspective, explaining that he found dead travelers and thought it looked like a vampire attack. Before he could investigate further, though, Roach cantered up to him and he discovered Jaskier was gone. He followed the scent but it went cold and then he tried to track him until he heard screaming and came upon Jaskier fighting with a bruxa and apparently a cursed man. Jaskier answers his questions and Geralt answers Jaskier’s until they both have the full scope of it.

Jaskier tries to write a song about true love, about something going beyond the superficial, about healing and looking beyond nature for what matters. But he keeps seeing Vereena attacking him, Vereena dead, Nivellen covered in blood and his eyes so lost, so broken, a nameless priestess whispering her curse in hopes of matching her own suffering. All he can write is a tragedy that he can’t make himself sing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if there are any tags/ warnings I should add to this!


End file.
